


Anthea, Exasperated Sea-Captain

by OneBlueUmbrella (bigblueboxat221b)



Series: Anthea Ships It [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anthea (Sherlock) is the Best PA, Developing Relationship, First Dates, Kidnapping, M/M, Sort Of, anthea ships it, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:27:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26891395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/OneBlueUmbrella
Summary: Anthea has tried everything she can think of and quite frankly, she's had enough of trying to get Mycroft Holmes to make a move on the handsome Detective Inspector he's been secretly in love with for so long.So if Mohammed won't come to the mountain, perhaps she can convince the mountain to come to Mohammed. As long as Greg is the mountain and Mohammed doesn't know he's coming...
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Anthea Ships It [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1871896
Comments: 31
Kudos: 196





	Anthea, Exasperated Sea-Captain

**Author's Note:**

> Now I've heard 10k is really the limit for one-shots, so I suppose this kind of fits in under the wire? It was written without consideration of chapter breaks, so there's not really a good place to do so. Hence, this very long single chapter story for your enjoyment.

Some nights the black car pulling up silently beside him was welcome. On those nights Greg had energy to spar with Mycroft, to concentrate on translating convoluted sentences into regular speak. Sometimes they didn’t talk a lot. Those nights were Greg’s favourite. They would sit in a private room at Mycroft’s club, generous pours of Scotch keeping them company, a fire burning in all but the hottest months. Despite the quiet, and the fact Mycroft never so much as loosened his tie, it was the most intimate time Greg spent with another human being.

Sitting in comfortable silence without the expectation anyone would speak was always soothing. As though his very presence was enough. It didn’t hurt that Mycroft thanked him for coming as they left, his eyes always softer at the end than the beginning. Sometimes after the worst work scenes, between arriving home under long-burning streetlights and dawn, Greg remembered that expression. Slumped on his sofa he would dare to tell himself the softness was because of him. Because he was content to sit with Mycroft without asking anything of him, or deriding him, or berating him. Just to be.

Tonight was not one of those nights.

Greg’d been on his feet for hours and hours, door-knocking with a pair of brand-new uniforms. It was interesting to watch the newly-badged officers work; he’d pegged a number of future detectives by seeing how they conducted interviews and listening to their thoughts after. Valuable as the process had proved to be, it was exhausting, and this was not a night Greg had any more to give, even for Mycroft.

He turned towards home, knowing it was in vain to hope the car would move on but hoping anyway.

“Detective Inspector.” The voice from the car was familiar, but not what he was expecting.

_Anthea._

Greg didn’t so much as blink. Even acknowledging her presence would be a step closer to getting into the car. And all he wanted now was to go home and watch some of the game before falling asleep on the sofa.

“Detective Inspector.” Anthea’s voice came again, and Greg felt his eyebrow rise at her tone. He didn’t stop, but it was definitely a surprise to hear her impatience. She was usually a model of indifference, even when Greg was short or exasperated. This must be something unusual. He kept listening as he walked, waiting for her to speak again, resenting the flare of curiosity in his belly.

“It’s important,” she said, and when Greg didn’t stop, she added, “important to Mycroft.”

Greg felt himself slow down. He cursed the impulse, knowing she would have noticed. Indeed, the car stopped slightly ahead of him, back door popping open.

_Damn it._

They both knew Greg was lost. Might as well go along with it.

When he slid into the car, something was different. Anthea wasn’t quite the same and it took a second for Greg to figure out what was weird. When she raised her eyebrows, he realised what it was. She was looking at him. That never happened. She was never unoccupied, and it was odd to have her calm dark eyes on him as the car started moving through the streets.

“What?” Greg said. He knew he sounded grumpy, but the energy to be polite just wasn’t there tonight. It was never a quick thing when Anthea picked him up and he didn’t even know if he had the energy for whatever Mycroft would have him do.

Anthea stared at him evenly for a long moment, street lights flashing across her face. “We have a situation involving Mycroft. A strategy is in place and you are pivotal to its success.”

“What?”

“Mycroft requires your help. Are you prepared to assist or not?”

“Well, yeah,” Greg started. “Look, what do I have to do?”

Anthea studied him a little longer. “For the moment, do as I ask,” she said.

“For the moment?” Greg repeated. She didn’t say anything, and he sighed. “Fine.”

Anthea nodded. “Consider this your briefing. You’ll spend the evening in a secure location, and tomorrow there will be more information.”

“Right.” Greg waited expectantly. “Is that it?”

“Did you need more?” Anthea asked.

“I…guess not,” Greg replied.

Anthea nodded again, and they didn’t speak again until the car dipped into an underground carpark. They both stepped out and directly into a lift; when it stopped, Greg found himself in a high-end flat. The entrance wasn’t large, but it still managed to be nicer than his whole flat, even with the subtle addition of security cameras near the ceiling. From here Greg could see through to the kitchen.

“Where are we exactly?” Greg asked.

“A secure location,” Anthea replied.

Greg recognised the non-answer but he didn’t bother calling her on it. He just wanted to sleep at this point. He stepped into the kitchen, looking pointedly at the doors leading further into the flat.

“Right,” he said. “If there’s nothing else, I’m going to bed.”

“I’ll be back to brief you at 9am,” Anthea said. “Everything you’ll need is in this first bedroom.”

“Thanks,” Greg said. He suspected a flat this nice would have another floor, but Anthea had indicated the bedroom on this level. It was a mark of how tired he was that Greg didn’t even think about finding the stairs. Anthea was gone when he turned back, and with nothing else to do, Greg headed for bed.

+++

The next morning, Greg was up, dressed and ready for Anthea when she arrived. He’d slept well, and a lot later than normal. With Anthea coming to him, and not much else to do, there was no point setting his alarm too early, and the extra hours of sleep made all the difference. Sipping his coffee, Greg reflected how this would be very weird if it was anyone else. His own brands of toiletries in the bathroom, the coffee he liked in the kitchen, his own clothes in the cupboard. The fact there was only one pair of trousers and one shirt made him feel better. Whatever this was, it would only be one day, and he’d be back to his own life.

“Good morning,” Anthea said efficiently, but she didn’t wait for his response before continuing. “I have several people coming here today to see you.” She indicated the man behind her, a short blond with a perfect goatee and moustache. “This is Prentiss. He’s a tailor.”

“A tailor?” Greg repeated. “Seriously?”

“Yes,” Anthea replied, and she was back to the person Greg remembered. Brisk and impersonal, as though his response to her words was hardly even relevant to her world. “Into the front room, if you would.”

Greg complied, mentally shrugging. He’d dealt with this version of Anthea enough to know she would only tell him what she wanted him to know, no matter how much Greg might try and convince her.

The tailor was very good at his trade, and when he made suggestions about fabric and colour, Greg agreed. It was just that kind of a morning, where other people seemed to know what was going on a lot more than he, and arguing would get him nowhere. Besides he could count on one thumb the number of times in the past he’d had a suit made for him. What did he know about fabrics and colours? Whatever this was in aid of, it was evident there would be a number of new suits, shirts, and ties. Prentiss also mentioned shoes, socks and underpants as he muttered instructions down the phone to his assistant.

_Sure. Why not?_

After the tailor were a hairdresser and manicurist. Definitely the first time he’d sat for a manicure, Greg considered, but it wasn’t the worst experience in the world. He didn’t even flinch when they plastered some kind of mask on his face. Might as well just let people do whatever Anthea had told them at this point. Besides, it was kind of nice, not that he would have admitted it.

When Greg emerged from the bathroom, back in his own clothes until Prentiss could arrange the new wardrobe, Anthea was waiting. She pushed a bowl across the kitchen table and he dropped into the chair.

“What’s this?”

“Lunch,” Anthea said.

It was some kind of salad-y thing, but not all lettuce like he always thought. “Yeah, but,” he picked up a fork and poked at something dark purple, “what is it?”

“Lentil, pumpkin and beetroot salad,” she told him. “Far better than a burger.”

Greg raised one eyebrow. “Noted,” he said finally. The burger place close to work was convenient but admittedly not the best option, and it was no surprise Anthea would know about it. A hesitant bite of the lunch in front of him made him relax. It was better than he’d expected. “What next?” he asked.

“We’re done for today,” Anthea told him, starting on her own lunch.

“Done? For today?” Greg asked.

“Yes,” she said.

Greg waited, knowing she’d have to give him something more eventually. He found a glass and filled it from the tap, draining it before filling it again. He was just wondering how likely it was Anthea would tell him where she’d bought the salad when she spoke again.

“The next phase will begin tomorrow,” she said. “Prentiss will have your wardrobe by morning.”

“Hang on, tomorrow?” Greg asked. “I’m meant to be working tomorrow.”

“No, you’re on leave,” Anthea said.

Greg blinked at her. “For how long?” he asked finally.

Anthea took a bite of her own salad. “At this stage, the operation is open-ended,” she told him calmly.

It took a few seconds debating how upset he should be, but the energy didn’t seem worth it. “Okay,” he said.

“I can let someone know you’re here,” Anthea said, and her eyes were keener as she watched for his reaction.

The fact she obviously knew there was nobody did nothing to appease the stab of pain in Greg’s gut at the statement. He didn’t even bother answering, instead waiting again. He seemed to be doing that a lot today. He must be relaxed – lately nothing had made him this patient.

_Either that or…no._

“Prentiss and I will return tomorrow morning,” Anthea said. “There’s food in the fridge, and you can use anything downstairs.” She nodded to a door Greg presumed lead to the next floor. “I know you haven’t headed upstairs, and I’d appreciate you keeping it that way.”

“Sure,” Greg murmured. It was weird, but since Anthea hadn’t actually told him where they were other than ‘a secure location’, it was quite possible the upstairs rooms were used for something else. And given how little he was allowed to know about what Mycroft actually did, heading upstairs might not be a good idea.

As he picked up their dishes, Greg wondered if this was the last resort location, or if they actually trusted him not to go upstairs. Light glanced off the glass installed in the corner of the room as he stepped towards the sink.

_Well, security cameras of course._

Other than that, though.

The rest of the day passed easily enough. After spending a bit of time checking out the results of the morning (nice haircut, and he looked way less tired – was that the facial thing?), he’d headed into the front room to the DVD cabinet. The collection was sparse, yet managed to mimic his own more closely than chance might suggest likely. Three Die Hard movies sounded like an excellent way to fill the rest of the day, and Greg sank into the sofa, happy to ignore the passing hours. There was food and beer at one point, until the credits of the last movie rolled and he stretched. Eyes heavy, he took the rubbish and dishes into the kitchen before heading for the bathroom.

Ten minutes later, he was asleep.

+++

Greg was sitting in the front room when Anthea and Prentiss arrived late morning. With no way of knowing when they’d arrive, he’d checked out the books and settled with a well-worn copy of _Dune_. There were an extra two people exiting the lift when he headed into the kitchen, carrying suit bags and suitcases. They walked right past Greg at Anthea’s indication, nodding to him. He returned the gesture, looking to Anthea.

_Bloody hell, that’s a whole lot of clothes in there._

“They’ll put everything in the wardrobe,” Prentiss said. “If you’re ready to try on one of the suits I’d like to check it fits properly.”

Greg nodded. “Sure.”

He’d never worn anything so well fitted to him. Even the last suit he’d had tailored wasn’t this level of quality. Greg shook his head as he shrugged on the suit jacket and adjusted the tie. He’d have to ask Mycroft how to tie one of those fancier knots. Such an expensive tie – he was pretty sure it was silk – deserved more than his clumsy fingers could do. The colour was good though, and Greg had to admit that between two good night’s sleep, a decent haircut and his new wardrobe, he was looking a lot better than he was accustomed to seeing in the mirror.

It was a strange feeling, after so long seeing himself as old and tired.

_How on earth is this helping Mycroft?_

Prentiss muttered to himself as he shifted fabric, checking lines and seams before nodding to himself. Greg shook his hand, privately amused at the focus Prentiss directed his way. It was nothing compared to Anthea’s scrutiny; when he walked out she tilted her head, eyes raking over every inch of him before she finally nodded. Whatever it was that satisfied her Greg had no idea, but she snapped back into work mode, typing rapidly on her Blackberry for a moment before turning to him.

Greg bit the inside of his mouth, stopping himself from speaking first. This was her party; he wasn’t going to push things. As always, she’d tell him what she wanted him to know and when she wanted him to know it.

_Why am I so okay with this today?_

“You’re calmer,” she said.

“Yes,” Greg agreed. He didn’t add anything, wondering how much she wanted to know about him. And how was it relevant to what was going on here?

“Yet you don’t know what’s going on,” Anthea asked. She was still watching him closely.

“So far I’ve got two nights’ good sleep, decent food and a new wardrobe,” Greg said. “Plus the haircut and a bunch of other stuff.” He grinned. “I have no idea why, but we’ve been doing this long enough I know you’ll tell me what I need to know. Eventually.”

Anthea blinked at him, clearly taken by surprise at his response. “You have no idea?” she said.

“You said something about it helping Mycroft,” Greg said. He shrugged. “That’s good enough.”

Anthea nodded, and Greg could see her taking in his answer and making a decision.

“This is Mycroft’s home,” she said, bracing for his response.

“What?” Greg said. He frowned. “There’s nothing that…this looks like a hotel.”

Anthea nodded. “He had been overseas,” she said. “I removed various items from his flat to make it appear less personal.”

Greg was frowning, his brain now working, aligning the things he’d noticed before. “The security cameras?”

“They were always there,” Anthea said. “They come on automatically if the panic alarm is triggered.”

“And the door?” Greg waved one hand to the locked door on the far side of the kitchen. The one that lead upstairs.

_Mycroft’s bedroom is up there. And probably a study._

“The door is new,” she said matter-of-factly.

_Jesus._

“Does Mycroft even know I’m here?” Greg asked.

There was hesitation, and Greg knew the answer – and more – before Anthea answered.

“No,” she said, and there must have been something in his face because her tone was tentative.

_Guilty._

“You’re setting us up,” Greg muttered. “Jesus, Anthea.” He ran one hand over his head, the shorter hair unfamiliar under his fingers. This was ridiculous. A dozen questions cascaded through his mind, but one pulsed louder than others.

_Why?_

“I am,” she said without a trace of embarrassment.

“But you said this was to help Mycroft,” Greg said slowly.

“It is,” Anthea said. She sat up straighter as she added calmly, “he deserves to be happy.”

“And he’s not?” Greg asked.

“No,” she said.

“Wait, and you think I’ll make him happy?” Greg said in disbelief. “How could you even…he’s never…”

“For a pair of trained observers, you can both be remarkably blind,” Anthea said, her tone brisk and this time, impatient enough to rankle Greg.

“Well thanks,” Greg said, choosing to ignore the jibe, “but how do you know he’s going to think this,” he waved one hand around, including himself, “is a good idea?”

“He won’t, initially,” Anthea said, “but it won’t take a lot of convincing.”

“Convincing?” Greg repeated incredulously. “You think dropping me in his flat, changing what I look like, and telling me to ‘convince’ him would be a good idea?”

He stood up, pacing as he thought. Anthea was sitting still, though her expression was tight as Greg’s brain raced. This was a terrible idea. How on earth would Mycroft feel about having him here? Not good, for sure. He was in the man’s house. His private sanctuary, from what Greg could tell. After all their meetings he didn’t even have an idea of which neighbourhood they were in.

The sound of fabric as he shifted was unfamiliar, and the new suit suddenly chafed. Jesus, what was he doing like this? All dressed up and lying in wait, basically. An ambush. But he was in it now, and much as he wanted to deny it, something was stirring in his gut.

_Why would she do this unless…_

“What’s the agenda?” Greg asked, turning to Anthea. Normally he’d work around it, but there was no point being anything but blunt. Not at this point.

She met his eyes coolly, but he could still see vigilance in her tight shoulders. This was not a normal conversation with Anthea. _This is different. Personal._

“Mycroft is not happy,” Anthea said.

“And it’s your job to make him happy?” Greg asked.

“Yes,” she said simply.

“Seriously?” Greg asked. He had no idea what her job description was of course, but it appeared she felt it extended into Mycroft’s life. All the way, from the look of it.

She looked at him levelly, more confident in this topic of conversation. “My job is to support Mycroft,” she said. “Professionally, that is a simple task. He wants organised, efficient, resourceful. Personally, he is extremely resistant to suggestion or action.”

Greg stared at her. “You’ve tried things before,” he said.

“I have,” Anthea admitted. “Nothing as ambitious as this.”

Greg nodded. He sat down, barely seeing the room as he thought again. Anthea clearly knew Mycroft well. Greg believed she _believed_ she knew what might make him happy. The rub was whether she was right, or this would be a disaster. A dozen things ran through his head, angles to play, possibilities that might eventuate. He could feel his heart beating fast, the air in his lungs raw as he dragged it into his body.

_Nope. Can’t do this._

Sharply Greg pushed away from the table, pulling at his tie as he hurried back to his room. _Not my room. Mycroft’s room._

Greg’s hands shook as he pulled off the new clothes, slinging them onto the bed. His old suit was missing, which set his teeth even more on edge. He just wanted his own comfortable clothes, but instead he was stuck with these new ones. They felt like a costume, like he was being dressed up to be paraded out in front of Mycroft. Frowning, he reached for more casual trousers and a shirt, relieved there were buttons and not cufflinks, ignoring the ties and other fancy details. He’d need a jumper; the new ones weren’t really his style but he pulled one on anyway, knowing it would be cold outside. Socks, shoes, his badge and wallet still in his own coat (thank God they hadn’t thrown that out). The familiar smell and weight of it was reassuring on his shoulders. _Gotta get out of here._ A deep breath that didn’t really help, and he walked back out into the kitchen.

“Detective,” Anthea started, but Greg stared her down, fierce enough that she stopped, chastened.

“I’ll need a car,” Greg said tightly. “Right now.”

She opened her mouth to speak but closed it again, choosing to nod instead. A second on her Blackberry, and she looked back to him. “Two minutes,” she said.

Greg nodded. “Where?”

“I’ll take you down,” she said.

He would have rather gone on his own, but given he didn’t know how to get the lift downstairs, Greg nodded again. Running into Mycroft was a possibility, but Greg didn’t want to ask Anthea anything right now. Instead he pressed his fingernails into his palms, bracing until the car pulled up.

The tension began to drain out of him as he reached for the door. He was done. Heading home, where he could forget this whole bizarre experience.

When the door opened before he could touch it, Greg’s brain took a second to catch up.

_How did it…_

Mycroft stepped out of the car, looking from Greg to Anthea in clear astonishment. He chose to speak to Anthea, though his eyes lingered on Greg, taking in details.

“Might I ask why?” he said, the simple question clearly enough.

Greg looked to Anthea, wondering what on earth she would say to this.

“Because if I didn’t, I’m not doing my job. Sir,” she said, lifting her chin.

Her answer clearly surprised him, because his eyebrow rose and he thought before speaking again. “And have you made your reasons clear?” he asked.

Greg knew what he was really asking.

_Does Greg understand?_

“Some,” she replied.

Mycroft’s eyes closed for a moment, and his cheeks flushed. When he opened his eyes, they would not settle on Greg.

“In that case, it might be best if you returned briefly upstairs with me,” he said.

Greg didn’t move, assuming he was speaking to Anthea, but she nodded, stepping around Mycroft and into the car. Five seconds later the car was gone, leaving Greg and Mycroft standing alone in front of the lift.

Without looking at Greg, Mycroft opened the lift doors, inviting Greg with one hand to enter first.

He had no idea what Mycroft might have to say, but Greg stepped in. Now that he was here, Greg was slightly regretting the decision to reject the Anthea-approved wardrobe. Mycroft would surely have noticed the haircut, the manicure, probably even whatever made him look less tired, and Greg wondered if they would make the rest of his clothes look even worse in comparison.

_Jesus. Hardly matters now._

When they stepped out into the entrance, Mycroft shed his coat without looking at Greg. The coat was hung in a shallow cupboard, the keys on a hook beside it and Greg wondered if Mycroft always took such care with such things or if he was stalling. He hung his coat beside Mycroft’s, ignoring the ache of _right_ that whispered through him at the sight.

“Might I offer you a drink?” Mycroft asked, still not looking directly at Greg.

“No,” Greg replied. “No, thanks.”

He still wasn’t entirely sure how this would play out, but he was certain his stomach wouldn’t cope with anything. Mycroft nodded, walking into the kitchen. Greg followed, uncertain what was going on. Mycroft wouldn’t have asked him up if there wasn’t going to be some kind of conversation. It could be a lecture, though Greg suspected that if that was the case, he would have done it downstairs.

“Precisely what did Anthea tell you?” Mycroft asked.

He was standing in the centre of the kitchen, the fingers of one hand resting on the bench. They looked like a tent, Greg thought irrationally; it was as though he needed to ground himself but wanted to do so subtly.

“She said it’s her job to make you happy,” Greg said.

“And she told you this would achieve that goal?” Mycroft replied. He waved one hand at Greg, clearly indicating the changes.

“I think she thought I would,” Greg said. “Achieve that.” His attempt at a smile fell flat as he added, “But a better version of me. Of course.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “’Of course’?” he echoed.

“Yeah,” Greg replied. “You think I don’t know my clothes aren’t as nice as yours, that I needed a haircut?” He raised his hands. “I wouldn’t have done the manicure or facial, but hey, she’s hard to say no to.”

“I did not wish to imply you were not up to an acceptable standard,” Mycroft continued. He’d flushed as Greg spoke, pale skin showing his embarrassment.

“I know,” Greg replied. “I meant…if Anthea thought I had a chance with you, obvious a _better_ me has a better chance.”

“You feel this is a more accurate reflection of who you are?” Mycroft replied. “That this would be a more attractive prospect?”

_How is this even a conversation I’m having?_

“I don’t know if it’s a more accurate representation,” Greg said, trying to keep up with the nuances of what Mycroft was saying. “But I’d have to be blind not to see that I look better with a decent sleep, haircut and bespoke clothes.” He shrugged. “I guess I’m not used to…prioritising it, maybe?”

“I hope I would not be out of line suggesting that your income now offers you this option, where it did not always do so,” Mycroft said carefully. “And the habits of a lifetime are difficult to break.”

Greg translated in his head.

_You can afford it now, but you’re not used to being able to afford it._

“Yeah,” he said. “I mean, it feels like a waste, getting a really good suit for work when I might end up in some revolting alleyway.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but it took a beat before he spoke. “Think back. How long has it been since your clothes were genuinely soiled at a crime scene?”

Greg opened his mouth to object that it happened all the time, but the look in Mycroft’s eyes made him pause and really consider the question.

“A while,” he said slowly. “Probably not…I mean, last winter, maybe?”

Mycroft nodded. “Another habit born of necessity,” he said. “Detective Inspectors are rarely crouching in unidentified fluids in an alleyway, if I understand correctly.”

“Yeah,” Greg replied. He scratched his head. How the hell had they gotten onto this conversation? “Anyway, Anthea made off with my old clothes, so I’m taking this set, but I’ll get them back to once I’ve changed. The rest is in the wardrobe.”

“The rest?” Mycroft repeated.

“Yeah, she organised a whole wardrobe of stuff,” Greg said awkwardly. “Sorry, I mean, if you ended up paying for it.”

“Not at all,” Mycroft said, though the words were automatic. “If I might bring our conversation back to the original question.”

Greg’s heart skipped a beat. He was all ready to say his goodbyes and never mention this again, but Mycroft appeared more prepared to see it through to the end.

“Right,” he said, bracing himself. “What was the question again?”

“I asked what Anthea told you to ensure your participation,” Mycroft replied. “You said it was her job to make me happy.”

“Yes,” Greg replied.

“And was there anything else?” The pink colour that had faded from Mycroft’s cheeks was reappearing, Greg was sure of it. So this was potentially more embarrassing. More personal.

Greg thought back. What had Anthea said?

“’For a pair of trained observers, you can both be remarkably blind’,” Greg said as the memory ran through his head.

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft replied.

“That’s what she said,” Greg said. “Earlier today.”

“She specifically mentioned ‘a _pair_ of trained observers’?” Mycroft asked.

Greg studied him. For all the effort Mycroft might be making to hide his reaction, he looked like he was about to keel over. Face pink, eyes wide, hand now pushing against the bench. Was he nervous? Greg played the question again in his head, thinking about Anthea’s words properly this time. Thinking about what they might mean to Mycroft.

“She did,” he said, a glimmer of Anthea’s meaning finally appearing.

Mycroft nodded, his lips pressed together.

“She also admitted she was setting us up,” Greg said.

“’Setting us up’,” Mycroft whispered faintly.

“She seemed pretty sure this was a good idea,” Greg went on, half dazed. “Is she…I mean, was she implying,” Greg swallowed hard, “that neither of us had noticed the other’s…interest?”

It was definite panic, what he was seeing in Mycroft. He was holding down the fight or flight, that was clear; Greg wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d bolted. Instead, in testament to his self-control, Mycroft swallowed hard and nodded.

“I cannot speak for you,” Mycroft said, “but I will admit to a certain interest beyond our professional relationship.”

“Right,” Greg said faintly. “In me?” he asked, feeling foolish for needed the confirmation but needing it, nevertheless.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied, closing his eyes. “I believed I had kept it to myself.”

“Anthea’s pretty good,” Greg said. “I was sure nobody had noticed either.”

Mycroft’s entire body stilled, in the way Greg associated with intense fear. He didn’t move for almost ten seconds; Greg wondered if he was holding his breath.

“You too?”

The words were like a prayer, hardly audible at all even in the silent kitchen. Only the slight twitch of his lips told Greg Mycroft had spoken and he realised it _was_ a prayer. Something Mycroft was hardly confident enough to speak aloud lest he destroy it.

“Me too,” Greg replied, his own words barely louder than Mycroft’s. “I don’t think we have an entirely professional relationship. Not with all the nights we spend drinking Scotch and talking.”

“About Sherlock,” Mycroft objected opening his eyes and glancing at Greg. The look barely lasted half a second before he dropped his eyes again.

“Not anymore,” Greg replied. He held his breath, taking two steps closer until he could rest his own hand on the same bench as Mycroft. “Not for a while,” he added.

“True,” Mycroft said.

“How did Anthea know?” Greg asked. “Surely you have plenty of ‘work’ dinners.”

Mycroft didn’t speak and Greg wondered if he’d pushed the boundaries too far. He was about to back-peddle when Mycroft finally spoke.

“I see few people in any way that could be construed as social,” he said. “And none in my private rooms.”

“Except me,” Greg replied.

“Yes,” Mycroft said. He glanced over. “You were the only person to acknowledge my birthday last year.”

Greg blinked. “Seriously?”

Mycroft nodded.

“Not even Anthea?” Greg asked.

“A quiet ‘best wishes’ for the day, as is our norm,” Mycroft replied. “A professionally appropriate acknowledgement.”

Greg nodded. “Jesus. I would have sent you more than that book if I’d known,” he replied.

“ _18 Ways To Tie A Neck Tie,”_ Mycroft said immediately. His mouth twitched as he added, “with bonus poster.”

“It was the poster that sold me,” Greg said, relieved Mycroft was obviously amused by the gift. “I’m a visual learner.”

“It may have given you away,” Mycroft said, the amusement fading from his expression. “Certainly it would have suggested you as a more likely candidate than any other for this…scheme.”

“That’s alright,” Greg said. He pressed his hand to the bench, hard enough his whole palm felt the shock of the cold tile to his skin. “So, what do we do now?”

Mycroft looked at him, turning properly. Greg tried to stand still, to keep his expression open, but he could feel his heart thumping. He’d never really considered this moment, never really thought he’d have a shot even for a ‘getting to know you’ level drink with Mycroft. Now the possibility of it was making him breathless. He hadn’t realised how much he wanted it until now.

“Perhaps you would have dinner with me,” Mycroft asked quietly.

Biting back his immediate and casual, ‘Sure,’, Greg took a breath and met Mycroft’s gaze. “That sounds wonderful,” he said, hoping his careful words lent the reply the gravitas it deserved.

Mycroft nodded. “I have had a long flight,” he said, “with a less than satisfactory meal service.” He glanced at his watch. “Perhaps I might refresh myself before we make early reservations?”

“Sure,” Greg said. “Take as long as you like.”

“An hour?” Mycroft asked.

Greg glanced at his watch – by the time they headed out, that would put them in the early-but-not-ridiculous timeslot for dinner. “Sounds good,” he said. “I’ll just be reading in the front room, if that’s alright?”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied. “Make yourself at home.”

Greg winced at the comment, but his discomfort eased when Mycroft shot him a small smile.

+++

Sixty two minutes later, Mycroft emerged. Greg was well into _Dune_ by then, but he closed the book and jumped up, conscious this was Mycroft’s book and Mycroft’s sofa on which he was sitting.

“Hi,” he said, and whatever he was going to say next evaporated as he turned and saw Mycroft. “Wow.”

Mycroft was wearing more casual clothes than Greg had ever seen him in. His trousers were still fitted, and he still wore a shirt, though it was checked white and deep red. _Decidedly not work, then._ The open collar was like an invitation, and it took a second for Greg to move his eyes onwards. His navy blazer was as well cut as usual, but from the expression on his face, Greg could tell this wasn’t his first choice of outfit.

“Anthea did your wardrobe too, didn’t she?” Greg said, and the look of resignation was enough to set him off. He tried to hold in the laughter but the whole situation was so ridiculous there was no way he could.

“I’m sorry,” Greg gasped, “I’m not laughing at you.” He waved his hand between the two of them. “This is just so ridiculous. I mean, the whole thing. Ridiculous.”

“I fail to see the humour,” Mycroft murmured, and for a second Greg’s laugher lessened until he saw the smile spreading on Mycroft’s face. He was trying to subdue it but it would not bow down; before Greg knew it they were both laughing, and the seriousness of the whole situation seemed to lift.

“Look,” Greg said, moving closer and enjoying the flush of feel good chemicals through his body. He waited until Mycroft met his eyes, still smiling. His shoulders were more relaxed, and though he didn’t appear entirely comfortable, neither was Greg concerned he might pull out of the whole thing.

“Yes?” Mycroft asked, and Greg realised he’d been going to say something.

He started with another smile, hoping to show Mycroft he was in a good mood. “I think we put a lot of pressure on ourselves before,” he said.

“Anthea did,” Mycroft replied.

“Yes,” Greg agreed. “But after that, the conversation got pretty heavy.” He paused. “Let’s simplify it. I’d like to go out for dinner with you. On a date. With a view to getting to know you better, because I think you’re very attractive.” It was awkward, kind of putting it out there like that. Not something he would generally do, but it seemed the easiest way to clear the air of all the expectation Anthea had thrust on them with her scheme.

“That sounds like an excellent plan,” Mycroft replied. He cleared his throat and straightened his spine. “I would also like to go out for dinner with you, on a date.” Greg grinned as he heard the paraphrase of his own words. _He’s even less comfortable putting this into words._

“Because,” Greg prompted, keeping his voice light.

“Because,” Mycroft repeated, with a look of reproach that did nothing to cover his nerves, “I think you’re very attractive.”

“Why Mister Holmes,” Greg said with a grin, “how kind of you to say.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows were working overtime, this time telling Greg he was being ridiculous. “Where shall we eat?” Mycroft said with the deliberateness of someone changing the subject.

“Is there a local pub or something?” Greg asked. “We might do better there for a walk-in.”

Mycroft nodded, thinking. “The Rose and Thorn is a ten minute walk,” he said.

“Sounds perfect,” Greg replied. “Lead on, MacDuff!”

Mycroft navigated them out onto the street, turning left and waiting for Greg to catch up before saying, “A common misquote from the Scottish Play.”

“Is it?” Greg said. “I didn’t study a lot of Shakespeare, I’ll admit.”

They talked about Shakespeare as they walked, the cool late afternoon air bracing. Greg wished he’d done as Mycroft had and picked up a scarf; his jumper and coat were warm but the wind kept sneaking down his neck. Thankfully the pub was close, and Mycroft’s hand in the small of his back as they entered shot warmth through him, too.

When they’d sat and ordered drinks, Greg decided to take the bull by the horns. “You escorted me through the door,” he said.

Mycroft blinked. “I did,” he said. “Is that significant?”

Greg smiled. “It’s different,” he said. “I haven’t dated a lot of blokes who’d bother.”

“I believe it is good manners,” Mycroft said, though he didn’t sound entirely convinced.

“It is,” Greg said. “It wasn’t a criticism.”

The silence that fell wasn’t quite comfortable and Greg was kicking himself for wrecking the vibe they’d been enjoying on the walk over. Given his attempt had worked so…not really well, Greg figured he might as well continue with the awkward questions.

“So how long has it been?” he asked.

“I don’t understand,” Mycroft asked.

“Since your last date,” Greg said. “I figured we might as well talk about something really awkward like our dating history, get it out of the way. You know, like a normal first date.”

“I have never had such an experience,” Mycroft said.

“You’ve never been on a date,” Greg said, checking he understood. “Ever?”

“No,” Mycroft said, consideringly. “I don’t believe I have.”

“Right,” Greg said. “Well, I can tell you how it goes, if you want. You know, so you know what to expect.”

Mycroft tilted his head, and Greg was surprised at how long he considered the question. “Given the unusual circumstances that led us here,” he said, pausing as the waiter approached.

“Shepherd’s pie,” Greg said, his mind only half on the food. He was hanging to know what Mycroft would say next.

“Stuffed aubergine, thank you,” Mycroft ordered, and waited until the waiter was gone. “Given the unusual circumstances that led us here,” he repeated, smiling as Greg gave a huff of impatience, “perhaps we should not necessarily follow the usual path.”

Greg exhaled, nodding. “Okay,” he said. It took a second to realise why that made him so happy. _He’s considering more than just the next five minutes._ “Well, I still want to know about you. More than just what you show the world.” He raised his glass, but when Mycroft still hadn’t spoken, he prompted, “I mean, you could start with relationship stuff, your childhood, the trauma of a family Christmas …” Greg grinned.

“Such exciting topics,” Mycroft said, though his tension eased. Greg watched as he took a drink of his wine, clearly thinking about what to say. “Well in the spirit of first dates,” he said, not sounding entirely confident, “my relationship history, short though it is.”

Greg nodded, not wanting to push. Mycroft flashed a smile, but it disappeared as he straightened his knife, aligning the knife precisely.

“You know, you don’t have to,” Greg said, taking pity on Mycroft. “I mean, it’s not meant to be this difficult.”

Mycroft froze, then raised his eyes from his cutlery to meet Greg’s. “I fear it might all be difficult,” he said.

“You’ve been doing fine,” Greg said. “Remember how easy this was on the way here.”

“We were discussing Shakespeare,” Mycroft replied. “Hardly the same.”

“True,” Greg said. “But I’m the same.” He smiled. “And if you want to talk about Shakespeare, we can talk about Shakespeare.”

He sat back, heart pounding. This day had been a rollercoaster, and he was slowly realising that dating Mycroft Holmes – even one date with Mycroft – might be quite a process. But three days ago he never even though he’d get close to this process, hadn’t even allowed himself to consider there could be a process at all. He could definitely be patient, see where it went. It was a change to the usual dating scene, where there was definitely a rhythm, a set of expectations. Mycroft not wanting to follow that was actually great. It made Greg feel…freer, which was a bit of a stupid sounding thing to say, but was still accurate.

“Most of the…women my parents considered appropriate were friends of the family,” Mycroft said suddenly. “Our dates, if you could call them such, tended to be prearranged meetings, being seated together at a family function, that kind of thing.”

“So more on the compatibility, less on the romance?” Greg hazarded.

“Precisely,” Mycroft replied. “And my preference being men, compatibility was an issue.”

Greg nodded. “Preference?” he asked.

“Exclusive preference,” Mycroft clarified.

Their meals arrived; the pause in conversation made the continuation difficult, but Greg picked it up anyway. “So you’ve dated men?” he asked.

“In a manner of speaking,” Mycroft replied. He glanced around. “I would prefer not to continue this particular conversation here.”

“Sure,” Greg replied. It wasn’t that important right now. “Well, in the interests of reciprocation, I’ve been on a lot of first dates. Men and women, mostly bad.”

“You were married, were you not?” Mycroft asked.

Greg felt his shoulders tense at the reminder. “I was,” he replied. “She was…it ended badly.”

Mycroft nodded, and there was a strange sense of their roles reversing as Greg realised it was he now lacking confidence in their conversation.

“Well should you wish to elaborate I will be listening,” Mycroft said. Greg’s heart eased. “In the meantime, allow me to tell you the agony of a standard childhood Christmas, thus combining two of your suggested topics of conversation.”

Greg felt himself relax as Mycroft started on an amusing tale of Sherlock’s antics many years ago. It carried him through the next few minutes until the tension was gone. They continued talking about their childhood, light and entertaining stories, but it helped Greg begin to build an idea of Mycroft he’d never glimpsed before.

By the time they’d finished dessert – a single shared chocolate tart, of which Greg ate most – things were going well, at least Greg thought so. They were both avoiding certain topics, of course, but that was to be expected. The main thing was the curl of connection Greg felt growing around them. He couldn’t tell if Mycroft felt it too, though the little smiles he was working hard to suppress were entirely adorable and hinted at a subconscious connection.

The air was cold outside, and Greg once again wished for a scarf. He buttoned his coat up, smiling as Mycroft did the same with careful fingers, his eyes lingering as Greg tried to hike his collar a little higher.

“We could walk through the park,” Greg suggested.

“What for?” Mycroft replied.

Greg grinned. “It’s dark. You could protect me from the scary things under the bed,” he said, referencing an earlier story.

“Very well,” Mycroft replied. He reached out, smoothing Greg’s lapel. “Though I could ask the same of you, Detective Inspector.”

Greg grinned again, something exciting burbling in his abdomen at the careful touch. “I’d say we’ll both be pretty safe.”

The unintended double meaning wasn’t lost on Mycroft, who smiled in return for long enough for Greg to get it. “I believe we will,” he murmured.

They walked quietly together towards Mycroft’s house, taking the gate into the park. It was dark, and Greg reached out, tucking his hand in the crook of Mycroft’s elbow. “Better to be close,” he said.

“Certainly,” Mycroft replied.

Greg found his hand covered by another, much warmer hand. That small confirmation – that he wasn’t taking advantage of anything, that his touch here was welcomed – warmed him, and he was glad the darkness hid the ridiculous smile he could feel spreading as they settled into their shared gait.

The path was dark, lit only by periodic lampposts along the way. Greg had no idea how big the park was; he’d only suggested it to extend their date. He wasn’t sure what would happen when they arrived back at Mycroft’s house, but he wanted this to last as long as possible. What he wanted the rest of the evening to bring was vague, but he knew if they ended the night without some indication of future plans, he’d be disappointed.

As they walked through the park Greg knew he was hooked. He would respect Mycroft’s wishes but it be nigh on impossible to hide the disappointment, and probably the hurt, too. The best he could wish for in that scenario was for them to continue on as they had before. Whatever happened, he didn’t want to lose Mycroft. The new sides he’d seen were fascinating. He was braver, funnier, more considerate than Greg had ever seen, and he wanted more. If that meant a platonic friendship, Greg would learn to live with it.

_Probably._

_Cross that bridge if you come to it, Lestrade. Just enjoy this evening, would you?_

“Wait,” Mycroft murmured, halting their movement with a tightening of his fingers on Greg’s.

Greg came back to himself, glancing around the park. It was entirely empty, as far as he could tell. They were standing on the edge of a pool of light, blackness stretched out behind them. It felt like they were alone in the world.

“What?” Greg asked.

“You’re cold,” Mycroft replied. He eased away, allowing Greg’s hand to slip out of his elbow. It was a little disconcerting, having their physical connection severed. Blinking at Mycroft, Greg had to wait for his eyes to adjust from the light before them to the dim shadows defining Mycroft. Greg’s eyes strained and he barely saw Mycroft slip the knot out of his scarf. They were standing close, but vertigo still tugged at the feeling of disconnect. Before he could do more than waver slightly, Mycroft stepped closer, something looping around his neck. The gentle pressure on the back of his neck, along with Mycroft’s sudden proximity made Greg tilt forward and he realise exactly how close they were.

Another two inches and he would be kissing Mycroft.

Greg froze. His heart was screaming _kiss him_ , but there wasn’t enough light to see Mycroft’s expression. There were twin pressures on his chest, presumably Mycroft’s hands holding the ends of the scarf. They weren’t looping it around or tucking it in anymore and Greg wondered if his agonised paralysis was affecting Mycroft too.

“Mycroft?” Greg whispered.

“Yes, Gregory,” he replied.

Greg didn’t answer for a dozen quick heartbeats before he blurted, “I can barely see you.”

“I am right here,” Mycroft replied, and the twin pressures lightened before settling again, wider and heavier.

_He’s turned his hands over. Can he feel my heartbeat through my coat?_

“This is not like any first date I’ve ever been on,” Greg said quietly.

“Oh?” Mycroft replied.

His hands didn’t move; Greg wondered if he was panicking. It was strange not being able to see his face. He’d been so expressive all night, a fascinating change for Greg, yet now there was nothing. The faint suggestion of his features, but not enough to read any kind of expression.

“I’ve never wanted to kiss someone so badly in my life,” Greg admitted, grateful the same darkness so effectively hiding Mycroft was also cloaking his embarrassment at such bold statements. “But I’ve also never been so worried I’ll mess things up.”

“You think kissing me would be detrimental?” Mycroft asked.

Greg grinned at the fancier way of saying _mess things up._ “I think I’ve been trying to convince myself it would be okay if you didn’t want us to see each other again like this,” he admitted, drawing on the darkness as an ally. _Put it all out there, Lestrade._ “But I don’t know.” He tried to make his voice warm, but it trembled. “You’re fascinating, and I want to know more.”

Mycroft didn’t speak, and Greg wondered if he’d blown it, and without even a kiss to show for his courage.

“You find me fascinating?” Mycroft’s voice came out of the darkness, confusion highlighted in every syllable.

“I do,” Greg replied. When there was no immediate response, he added recklessly, “Not to mention a host of other things. All good. All…attractive.”

He thought he heard Mycroft swallow, but couldn’t be sure. All his attention was suddenly taken up by the hands on his chest pressing hard before sliding up and over his shoulders, drawing him closer until he was chest to chest with Mycroft, solid in the darkness. His arms came out to steady himself and without thought they were wrapped around Mycroft’s waist, cementing their embrace.

_Holy shit._

Greg stood still, hoping he felt relaxed, though his heart pounded a thousand beats a minute by his estimation. This close he could see the broad strokes of Mycroft’s face, but only enough to know he was looking at Greg, he expression grave. It was strange having no other visual clues even with his eyes open, but still so much information about Mycroft was coming in Greg was almost overwhelmed. His scent, the curve of his back, the feel of his breath skittering slightly warm over Greg’s cold cheek. It was intimate in such an astonishing way.

Mycroft’s breathing was steady but deep in the way of someone trying to control it. Impulsively, Greg pulled one hand around, leaning out to wiggle his arm inwards, fitting his hand over Mycroft’s chest. It only took a second before the frantic thudding against his palm told Greg what he already suspected.

“What are you…” Mycroft started, but stopped when Greg reached across himself, peeling Mycroft’s hand free and settling it over his own chest before replacing his hand.

They stood in the dark, hands over each other’s hearts, and Greg felt the gasp of recognition when Mycroft understood what he was saying. Two racing heartbeats.

“Are you sure?” Mycroft whispered.

“About forever, no,” Greg replied, “but I have a definite feeling about right now.”

It was strange to keep his eyes open until the kiss landed, but Greg was worried he didn’t have a good enough idea exactly where Mycroft was. He was closer than Greg thought, though in exactly the right direction, so rather than the gentle press he was going for, his lips and Mycroft’s settled together immediately.

He froze, a heartbeat passing before his lungs pulled air in, hard and fast, fingers tightening with the intensity of it. At some point his eyes had closed, but Greg didn’t expect to see anything anyway. He had far more interesting things to notice, such as how Mycroft’s fingers had clenched into his chest at the contact. How soft Mycroft’s lips were, and how they were moving against his. How Mycroft’s hand sliding across his shoulder pulled him closer, and they moved together to shift their hands, allowing their chests to press together. Arms locked around Mycroft’s waist again Greg never wanted this to end.

_Please let him feel the same._

The kiss didn’t last forever, and when it broke neither eased their embrace more than absolutely necessary. Greg found himself inches from Mycroft, heart thumping, breathing into the space with the same gasping breaths as Mycroft.

“You said you weren’t sure about forever,” Mycroft said quietly, his voice breathless in the cool air.

“I did,” Greg replied, blinking in vain. He could just make out the curve of Mycroft’s smile. The darkness that had felt so isolating earlier now curved around both of them, drawing them together.

_He’s right here._

“Without pressure or expectation,” Mycroft said, “perhaps we could progress slowly.” He paused, his next words hardly audible. “For a significant period of time.”

“That sounds like a good plan,” Greg replied, his heart flip-flopping at the word _significant_. “I certainly think Anthea would agree.”

Mycroft groaned, leaning his forehead against Greg’s. “She will be a handful this coming week,” he said.

“Just a week?” Greg said, raising his eyebrow. He couldn’t stop his mouth turning up at the affectionate touch Mycroft had unconsciously offered.

“Or longer,” Mycroft amended, leaning down to kiss Greg again. When it broke, he added, “Perhaps a generous extension to her holiday period would temper her reaction.”

“How would you manage without her around?” Greg asked, grinning.

“I would simply have to take holidays as well,” Mycroft explained with a straight face.

“Yeah right,” Greg replied. “Sitting around and doing what, watching Die Hard?”

To his astonishment, Mycroft’s face flushed deep and immediate. “Wait, those are your DVDs?” Greg exclaimed. “I thought they were planted to give me something to do!”

“I may indulge, once per year,” Mycroft replied.

“A Christmas tradition?” Greg teased.

“Something like that,” Mycroft said. “And in response to what I would be doing,” he tightened his arms, bringing Greg in close again, “I suspect I would require company.”

Greg smiled, wondering if Mycroft could still feel his heart beating. It was still racing as they used the light teasing tone to cover the conversation about their future.

“We should head…” Greg stopped abruptly. The rest of sentence was either going to be _home_ or possibly _back to your place_ , but both felt pretty presumptuous considering they’d barely kissed at this point. It was hardly taking it slow.

“Back to my flat,” Mycroft finished for him. “I would hardly send you home at such a late hour.”

“Thanks,” Greg said, casting around for something to reassure Mycroft. “Um, your spare bed is comfortable, so I’ll be fine.”

He was unprepared for the kiss that landed on his mouth. “Perhaps you might join me in my bed,” Mycroft murmured, “to sleep, you understand.”

“Yeah,” Greg replied. “That would be good.” It was an understatement, of course, but his heart was pumping warm joy pretty hard through his body, and somehow it affected his vocabulary.

_Long time since that’s happened._

“Come on,” Greg said, stepping back and making sure he could slide his fingers into Mycroft’s. “Let’s go.”


End file.
